


A Sacrifice Love Demands

by second_hand_heaven



Category: DCU
Genre: A whole lotta trust, Alfred is a good father, Cuddles, F/M, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Pre-Relationship, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), They're in love they just don't know the others know, Trust, Trust is Bruce-speak for love, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 12:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: Bruce wakes up in the Cave after a run-in with Scarecrow and his latest fear toxin. He's terrified, but not of what is around him...





	A Sacrifice Love Demands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coffee_Scribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Scribbles/gifts).



> My contribution to the SuperWonderBat mini gift exchange for the lovely Nina! Hope you enjoy this, my lovely!
> 
> -Nova xx

 

Bruce can’t see. That’s the first thing he realises as he wakes from whatever hideous slumber he’d slipped beneath: he can’t see. He blinks and waits in case the darkness is not his own doing, but there is nothing, no adjustment to the absence of light, no shadows or shapes he can identify.

The second thing he notices is that he can’t move. Not paralysed, which is a pleasant surprise, but restrained at the wrist and ankle, neck, chest and hips. Professionally done, not tight enough to cut off circulation, but firm enough to hold him still. He flexes fingers, pleased with the movement, but freeing himself from these restraints, he knows, will be no easy feat.

Footsteps approach lightly, a soft click of an Oxford's heel on stone. “It’s alright, Master Bruce. You are safe.”

“Alfred?” He tries to say more but his throat is cracked and sworn to silence.

“I’m here.” A cool hand strokes across Bruce’s brow, and it’s like he’s eight again, bed-ridden with fever and guilt, Alfred never leaving his side. But he's not eight years old any more and Alfred is much less inclined to dote on him when he's down with a case of the sniffles.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

He scours his memory, swiping through thick fog with little success. The fog turns green, sickly and putrid, echoing laughter that's too sinister to be the Joker's.

“Scarecrow.”

“Indeed. A new concoction, something unlike anything else he has used before. You’ve been in and out of consciousness, lucid on rare occasion.”

Bruce nods as best as he can against his restraints. “How long?”

“Two days.”

Two whole days. He needs to get up, needs to get back to his city. He needs to check on Dick. His stomach threatens to crawl out his mouth as the thought of his ward, his son, worried and afraid for, or even of, him. “How much longer?”

“I'd estimate another twelve hours to be certain it is out of your system. There's a persistent photo-sensitivity, hence the blindfold. I'd apologise for keeping it on so long, but when I last tried to remove it, well, you weren't particularly pleased. Mister Kent and Ms Prince are covering Gotham with Master Richard’s assistance, I should add. They're quite concerned about you.”

An image flashes behind his eyes, a memory, he thinks, if he could remember. Diana and Clark, casually dressed, mouths agape in horror. “What did I do?”

“Nothing that can’t be healed or mended in time,” Alfred is quick to assure him. Too quick.

“Alfred.”

A sigh. “Mister Kent and Ms Prince were here when you returned from dealing with Scarecrow. They helped restrain you while I managed to find a sedative. I know your distaste for them, but it was... necessary. You said some things while under the influence of Scarecrow’s hallucinogens, things that they know you would not have said otherwise.”

Bruce shuts his eyes against the burning shame and tears. What if he hurt someone, hurt Alfred?  Drugged or otherwise, he had no excuse. He could never forgive himself. But he must have hurt them, with his words then, if not physically. Why else would they look at him with such shock?

He should have known this is how it would happen. Should have known he would have only caused pain to Clark and Diana. Frankly he was shocked things had gone this long without it all falling apart. A tightrope balancing act between maintaining a tight friendship and camaraderie, and harbouring feelings that demanded something else. It had only ever been a matter of time before he scared them away.

“As I said, it's nothing that can't be mended. Trust me, Master Bruce. Trust them.”

“"The worst thing about it _is_ that I trust them. More than I trust myself sometimes.”

“Trust,” Alfred says, “is a sacrifice love demands of us.”

Bruce bites back a denial. There’s no point lying to Alfred, not after all these years. Love is a strong word, but in truth it's rather accurate. A truth that Bruce continues to try and fail to ignore. “It scares me more than words can say.”

“I know, Master Bruce.” The hand is back on Bruce's face, stroking his hair back from his sweat-slick forehead. “I know.”

Sleep threatens to pull Bruce back under, but a determination sinks beneath his skin

“I need to speak to them.”

“You need to rest.”

Bruce’s eyelids traitorously agree, but no, he can’t rest. “I can rest later,” he tells Alfred, “I need to put this right.”

Alfred pauses for a moment “I'll alert them to your condition.”  


* * *

 

It doesn't take long before two more sets of footsteps arrive in the Cave.

Alfred clears his throat. “I’ll give you three a moment.”

The silence drags on as Alfred leaves. All the things Bruce knows he needs to say vanish from his mind. He feels naked here, blind and restrained like an animal with no self control. What is there for him to say that could make this better? He doesn't even know what he said to get himself into this mess.

“Bruce? How are you feeling?” Diana asks, finally breaking the silence.

“I guess I’ll need a raincheck on poker night.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Fine,” he says, and then, “I’m sorry.” The words escape his lips, unable to be held back any longer.

“Bruce, you don’t have anything to apologise for. You were drugged, you didn't know what you were saying.”

“I still don't know what I said.”

“Then why are you sorry, B?”

Bruce clenches his jaw for a moment before admitting, “I'd never want to hurt you.”

“Nor I you. You haven't hurt us Bruce. Let me show you.”

He expects the crackling magic of Diana's lasso on his hand, and almost jumps when he feels the warmth of Diana's hand slipping into his grasp.

“You didn't hurt us, Bruce,” she says, her voice soothing like hot tea. “Yes, you said some things, some fears and truths, but nothing that could hurt any of us.”

“B, you know I care about you, that we care about you. What hurt the most was watching you in pain and being powerless to do-”

Clark's words fade away as pain shoots through Bruce's calf in a burning streak, the muscles bunching and seizing in their own aching symphony. He can’t bite back a gasp, can’t move to alleviate the pain, can’t do anything but lie still in agony.

“Bruce?”

“‘M fine,” he says through grit teeth, “ it’s just a cramp.”

“Let us untie you.”

“No!” It comes out fiercer than he intends. “No, I’m fine.” He won't risk it.

Diana won't take no for an answer. “You won’t hurt us, Bruce. We trust you.”

Trust. He blames the drugs in his system for the tears that spring in the corners of his eyes. He nods and lays back, let's them do as they will.

With systemic movements, the two manage to unfasten Bruce's restraints with ease, working from his torso and diverging, one moving up, the other down his body until he is free.

Fingertips stroke the sides of his face, slowly as to not alarm him, he knows, but his sharp intake of breath has nothing to do with being afraid.

“Keep the blindfold on,” he says, “the light.”

“Okay.” The hands either side of his face don’t move, just continue to cradle his jaw with a gentleness he doesn’t deserve.

Lips brush against Bruce's forehead, so soft he almost misses it. “You weren't scared of us, Bruce. Not exactly. You were terrified that we'd leave.”

It’s true, which makes it all that much worse. They'd wormed their way behind his defences, and once they were there, he clung to them, hoping beyond hope that they would stay.

“We won't leave you,” Diana says, and it sounds like a promise. “Which is why we're going to climb on this bed and stay here until you're well.”

“Diana.” He tries to be stern but to no avail. He can hear her shedding her boots and weaponry. Another tactic then. “I smell gross.”

“I don’t care.”

“You won’t fit.”

“I don’t care.” Diana clambers on top with a grace Bruce admires. She doesn’t jostle him, doesn’t poke him with elbows or knees as she settles against Bruce’s left side.

The bed shakes and Clark settles on his other side, enveloping Bruce's body in warmth. “You're okay,” he says, shifting so Bruce's he'd settles beneath his chin. “We're okay.”

Bruce's body shakes between them. His blindfold sweeps away his tears.

“See?” Clark whispers into Bruce's hair. “You won't hurt us, Bruce. I don't think you ever could.”

 

_FIN_


End file.
